Burning Gold
by xeraphinakessler
Summary: Dean Winchester is everything Xeraphina Kessler could ever hope for in a man. Dean WinchesterxOC oneshot OOC Dean Winchester


The backdoor to her cabin opens and shuts softly before she hears the sound of someone locking it and boots shuffling across the floor. It doesn't wake her – she hasn't been able to sleep since he's been gone. She can never sleep when he's gone. She exhales in relief, not realizing that she had been holding her breath waiting for him to come back. She sits up in her bed and looks across the small, one-roomed cabin to see him, leaning up against the counter and swiftly chugging her last bottle of whiskey. She briefly considers asking him how it went, but one look at his face tells her it didn't go well. Instead of speaking, she pulls the quilts back and puts her bare feet on the cold wooden floor. Her plaid pajama pants and tee shirt aren't warm enough for the cool January night, so she wraps her arms around herself and crosses the room to him. "Are you hurt?" she says. It's a little more than a scared whisper, but he hears her. He shakes his head and takes another long drink from the bottle. She stands before him and gently takes the bottle, sitting it on the table behind her. She brings her hands to his shoulders and helps shrug him out of his jacket. Not believing him, she checks his face, neck, torso, and arms for any open wounds or broken bones. Finding none, she turns and walks to the bathroom to get a clean washcloth. Like an obedient child, Dean sits in the chair at the table that she pulls out for him. He stays quiet as she cleans his hands, his neck, and his face of the dirt and blood that he accumulated on the mission. It was their routine: he'd come in, she'd clean him up and check him. If she found any wounds, she would stitch him up – she was the only person (besides maybe Castiel) that he would let stitch him up. When she finishes, she sits the cloth on the table and closes her eyes. She wonders how many people they lost while she was laying safely beneath her quilts, but she doesn't ask – he never wants to talk about those things while he's with her. She considers making her case to start going on the missions with him, but she enjoys the silence while he's there. When he's not there, it crushes her. She feels his hands on the sides of her hips, gently pulling her between his legs. She complies, putting her arms around his shoulder and using one to cradle his head. He buries his head in her chest and his arms tighten around her middle, bringing her as close to him as he can. "It's okay, Dean," she soothes. "You're safe here, you're safe with me." Safety. The constant reminder that she shelters him from the harsh demands that lies outside the door to her cabin. Food, Croatoan, missions, the Devil himself – she lets him drop every single worry at her door. She is the only one who never needs an answer from him. She just gives him her love. And for that, he takes care of the things she can't. Cutting her firewood, patching the roof of her cabin, making sure she had enough food and water, and even the warm comfort of his arms at night – he makes sure she has everything she needs and she never has to ask. "How bad?" she asks softly, hoping that talking about it will help. "Too bad," he gruffly replies. She takes a deep breath, "I could help on some of these." Dean's head jerks up toward her, his mouth set in a hard line, "No, you couldn't." "I was a pretty decent hunter before all this happened, you know." He nods. He knows. He hunted with her once or twice before the Croatoan virus spread. In fact, she was with him when they came to Camp Chitaqua. "Still not happening, is it?" she surrenders, rather than argue with him. A ghost of a smile plays at his lips as he looks away from her, but it is quickly wiped from his face. She sighs – she misses the Dean Winchester that would have given her a smart assed reply back, the Dean that she could joke and play with. Too much has happened; she knows that, so she doesn't press it. He looks back at her, "So help me, you will never go. Ever. Not if I can help it." She sighs and keeps playing with his short hair. "Are you afraid I can't keep up?" "No." She takes a deep breath. Normally, she wouldn't argue, she wouldn't ask, she wouldn't care. Normally she just opens her arms to him as a comfort. But she's tired of her friends dying while she's tucked away safely in bed. "Then why?" His green eyes pierce hers and she instantly regrets pressing the issue. "You really wanna know?" She weakly nods, unsure if she really does. Dean nods and looks down at her stomach. "Because, if I lost you… i-if you died on a mission…" his voice cracks and his hands tighten on her hips. "It's okay," she soothes, her hands finding his neck. He takes a deep breath, "I can't lose you. You're all I got left." Small, definitive statements, but she's never heard him say anything like that. She's always known that he cares about her, but war-hardened Dean Winchester of 2014 is not the type of man who gives out sappy, chick-flick confessions. In all honesty, she knows he would rather take on all the Croatoan of the world and face Lucifer in Sam's body than he would repeat himself. As badly as she wants him to go on, to keep whispering sweet nothings to her, she knows that he doesn't have to. She is his refuge, his safe haven. Hers is the one place that he doesn't have to explain himself. "You're safe here," she repeats, pulling him close to her. He grabs her face gently, pulling her toward him. His lips capture hers, but it's soft, passionate, loving. Not worried and desperate like normal. A soft moan escapes her lips – these nights are her favorite, slow, passionate. The nights that he tells her he loves her with his body instead of words, because words simply aren't his style. He pulls her into his lap on the chair, sitting her so she can grind against him as he runs his hands down her tee shirt. He breaks from her lips and starts moving down her jaw and into her neck, his hands tightening on her with every moan he hears. "I will always protect you," he whispers in her ear. "As long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you. I'll keep you safe." And she knows that. She knows how much she means to him – she can see it. She sees it in the way that other women in camp try to get his attention, but yet it's her bed that he sneaks into, not theirs. She sees it in the way Dean tenses up when she and Castiel are in the same room together, like he doesn't trust his orgy-loving best friend around her (which is okay, because she likes being the only woman in camp that Castiel hasn't had on his bed). She saw it a month ago when Dean laid Tommy Ralton out with one swing and threatened to do the same to any other man who made inappropriate comments about her. She sees it in the way he kisses her before he leaves on dangerous missions – the way he kisses her when he comes back. He brings his mouth back to hers again, fighting her tongue for control. He sucks her bottom lip and gently nips it, smiling for the first time in hours when she squeaks in surprise. He stands from the chair and wraps her legs around his waist, carrying her with him. His arms lock around her as she holds on to his neck. Instead of laying her on the bed, he stops just short of the queen sized mattress and sets her on her feet, his lips never leaving hers. He breaks apart and looks down at her eyes – she can easily see the silent plea: take care of me. So she does. With his jacket already off, she gently untucks his shirt from his pants and pulls it up over his head. She runs her hands over his arms, well-muscled from the hard camp life. Her hands trace from his neck, over his shoulders, down his chest and to his stomach. Her fingers lightly dust over each scar. She kisses the ones that she personally sewed or patched – the bullet wound in his right shoulder from last spring, the cut on his left side from where he fell on glass shards last fall, a couple more cuts and scrapes scattered everywhere. Dean shivers every time her lips come in contact with his skin. Sinking to her knees, she starts to work on his thigh holster, unclasping it from his right leg. His hands tangle in her too-long dark locks, bringing it away from her face. He loves to see her face. When she finally clicks the holster away from his leg, she holds it and the gun up to him so he can put it on the nightstand. When they're finished, she knows he'll want it close by in case he needs to protect them. It's the same reason she keeps the rifle he gave her by her side of the bed. Just another reminder of the evil that lies outside the door. She works on his belt next, unfastening it and unbuttoning his jeans quickly. She pulls his jeans and boxers down in one clean swipe, exposing him to her. He takes off his boots and steps out of the dirty jeans and boxers, sitting them next to his dirty shirt to be washed later, probably by her. Her hands make their way up his thighs, gently grazing more scars and the marks where the thigh holster was so tightly pinned to his leg. She kisses the skin, slowly making her way closer and closer to his growing erection. Before she reaches it, she looks up at him and smiles. This is what she likes: taking her time with him. She hates the desperate, rough, I-need-you-now fucks between daily tasks and rushed before and after missions. As Dean strokes her hair away from her face, he wishes he could go slower with her more often, but they rarely have time anymore. Love making has been reserved for special occasions. "I'll keep you safe," he whispers again, his voice ringing with sincerity. She smiles at him again before lowering her mouth to his pulsing dick. She takes it slowly into her mouth and hears him gasp. His fingers that were tangled in her hair gently press on her scalp, silently begging her. Her tongue swirls around the head before she goes farther down on him. She gently sucks as she bobs, her hands feeling the muscles in his thighs tense up. One of his hands reaches for hers and she hears him moan her name. She bobs her head a few more times, rubbing her tongue over the head of his dick each time she reaches the tip. After one swirl of her tongue, Dean is done. He grabs her face and gently pulls her back to his mouth. She giggles at his eagerness – they never have time for foreplay. His hands trail down from her neck to the sides of her ribs and she involuntarily shudders. "Now it's my turn," he whispers against her lips. She smiles, "Who says I was done?" The familiar twinkle returns to Dean's eye and he smirks, "I did." she surrenders with a gentle kiss. His hands reach up under her shirt and she shudders from his cool touch. He pulls her into him, taking her shirt and pulling it with him as he goes. She didn't wear a bra to bed, so she stands shirtless before him, almost wanting to cover herself. She had learned early on that nakedness wasn't something Dean was ever ashamed of. She knew that it wouldn't have mattered if he was in good shape or not, he would have the confidence of a male model. She, however, was a little shyer. For the first two months that she and Dean started sleeping together, she had insisted it was in the dark with the lights off, because she was ashamed of how she looked. Eventually, he coaxed her into the sunlight, and although she is okay with showing him her body, she still isn't very confident. He gently grabs her wrists and placed her hands around his neck, exposing her to him. She blushed and looked away under his soft stare. He reaches down and pulls down her plaid pajamas, leaving her in the lace thong she had worn to bed. He pulls her close so their skin was touching and she could feel the heat building. His hands are no longer cold to her as they trace down her back – it makes her hungry for him. He lays her on the bed, pulling back the quilts so she could get between them. He turns to make sure the fire was well supplied with wood before he crawls in after her. But the second he gets between the blankets, he shuffles so that he is on top of her, between her legs. "Dean," she moans as his lips crash to her neck. He kisses, sucks, nips the skin. Gently, ever so gently. His hands find her breasts, softly tweaking her nipples; she moans softly, arching into his touch. He chuckles as he brings his face down to replace his hand. His scruff rubs her sensitive skin as his hand reaches up to take hers. His other hand trails down her bare stomach to her laced thong. He releases her nipple promptly, causing her to whimper at the loss of sensation. "Dean," she whines. "I know, sweetheart," he gruffly says. He brings his mouth back to her skin, starting just under her breast and making his way down her stomach. He goes slow, tantalizingly slow, causing her to grab the sheets and bends into him. He throws back the quilts so he can see her and he sees the goosebumps from the cool air freckle across her skin. She looks up at him and he smiles before he kisses the lace that covers her sex. She throws her head back into the pillow. "Dean," she moans. She's impatient. She needs him. Just that simple moan tells him everything he needs to know. He sits up on his knees and lifts her rear so he can get her panties off – she submits and lifts her hips to him. He throws them on the pile with their other clothes. Dean rubs his rough, calloused hands from her neck down to her sex, eliciting moans from her. He smiles down at her, this is what he likes, taking his time and making her his – his only. She had other men before him, but none of them matter, just like the women he had before her. She's his, and he's hers. He brings a finger between her folds and finds that she is dripping wet for him. He runs his finger down the length of her slit, causing her to hiss and lean into his touch. He can feel his cock twitch and his balls tighten with every response she gives him. He gently inserts a finger and she moans in pleasure. While he pumps his finger slowly in and out of her, he brings his other hand to her clit, massaging it quickly. She starts to breathe faster and faster, her eyes close in concentration on what he's giving her. Suddenly, he picks up the pace of his finger fucking her and eases off the pressure on her clit, going at an antagonizing slow pace. The sudden change causes her to lean up to him and moan his name again. He chuckles, "I know, sweetheart. I know." He considers letting her come now, before he even gets inside her. He knows she loves when he's concentrated solely on her. She's never said it, but he knows. But damn, does he love when she comes on his cock. And after the day he's had, he deserves the simple pleasures like that. He pulls his hand back and sucks on the juices she left on him. God, she tastes so sweet. She looks up at him, brow furrowed. She's not used to him stopping in the middle like that – which means there's a threat nearby. "Wha – " He puts a finger to her lips, "Everything is okay." She nods and lies back on the bed, trusting him. A few years ago, Dean would've then asked her if she was on the pill or reached for a condom, but times have changed. He can't remember the last time he saw a condom, much less used one. When the world went to hell, birth control was a bit lower on the list than food. So, as always, he briefly considers what will happen if she gets pregnant. Of course, he would take care of her, probably marry her (if he doesn't do that soon anyway). But right now, he wants to take care of her a different way. She's always the one he runs to, always the one taking care of him. She lets him take whatever he needs from her, whether that's a shoulder to cry on, arms to hold him, or someone to fuck his frustrations out on. Round two, he'll probably fuck her till she can't walk and she's sore – he's done that before after rough missions. He's bent her over this same bed and fucked her from behind until she couldn't stand. But right now, he just needs her. He pulls her hips toward his and teases her with the head of his dick. She looks up at him through half-closed eyes and he knows she's cursing him inside her head for teasing. He leans down and meets her lips, kissing her softly again before lining himself with her entrance and putting in the tip of his dick. She starts to moan in his ear, but when Dean lets his weight carry him inside her, it turns into a grunt. Dean wants to take it slow, he wants to show her that he can give back to her, but all he can think about is how tight and warm she is beneath him. He starts to roll his hips against her, using his left forearm to support his weight so he can lean down to kiss her. He pumps into her, thrashing again and again, pulling out almost all the way before crashing back into her. "Dean," she moans, her hands pulling at his hair. He moves with her, thrashing into her and feeling all of his worries fade in the background. What he's going to do for food in the camp, with one thrust, he's not thinking about it anymore. How many men they lost today – that's off the backburner of his mind too. The constant fear of a croate walking into her cabin – he kisses her neck and the only thing that matters is her moan, her fingers tightening on his shoulders, her hips coming up to meet his with every thrust. "God," he grunts into her neck. He's close, he can feel it, but he wants her to come with him. He leans up from her neck and puts his two forefingers in her mouth. She licks his fingers, sucking them until he suddenly pulls them out and puts them down to her clit. She grabs the sheets behind her and moans again. His left hand grabs her hip and pulls him down farther on his dick, his right hand massaging her clit in time with his thrusts. Watching her move beneath him is almost too much – Dean wants to come right then and there. But he wants her to come with him – there is no better feeling than that. She starts to tighten around him, "I-I'm close, Dean!" she breathes. "I know, sweetheart," he says. He starts to apply more pressure, hitting that sweet spot with his cock. Finally her body convulses and he knows she's seeing stars. She twitches around him, screaming, panting, twisting the sheets in her hands. He thrusts harder into her, riding out her orgasm so he can come with her. Everything inside him tightens as he kisses her lips and he bursts with his own orgasm too. He grunts as he comes to a stop on top of her, both of them panting from the intensity. It hasn't been like that in a long time. "Wow," she breathes. "What got into you today?" He kisses her and pulls out, already missing the feel of filling her. He rolls on his back and pulls the almost forgotten quilts around them. She lifts her head so he can put his arm underneath her as she cuddles to his chest. He kisses her forehead and grabs her left hand, examining it. She breathes deeply and Dean is almost positive she's going to fall asleep in the next two minutes. "I'm so glad you're back," she mummers. He smiles, "It can't be that bad to have me out of here." She shakes her head and yawns. "I hate when you're gone. I worry about if you're okay." He pulls her close again, "I'm here now. You're safe with me." "I know," she breathes again. "I trust you." He knows she does, he just wishes there was more he could do for her. More that he could show her about how he feels. "I wish we could go back," she mumbles. "Back before the world went to Hell." He chuckles, "I think everybody wishes that." Her sleepy spell broken, she sits up on her elbow so she can see his eyes. "What do you think we would be doing if the apocalypse hadn't started?" Dean looks around the room, thinking. "I'd still be hunting – that much I know." "What about me?" He smiles, but it's a sad smile. "You'd be in your normal picket-fenced house, making dinner for your normal husband, enjoying your normal life." She frowns, "That sounds boring." "That sounds safe," he corrects. He brings his arms around her, pushing her to his chest again. She takes a deep breath and he sees her close her eyes. The silence settles, and Dean starts to picture what she would be like with her normal family, normal husband, normal life – a life he could never be in. His heart starts to sink when he thinks about all the wonderful things she's being deprived of – things that he simply can't help. He'd give anything to go back in time and give her what she wants. But he can't. But as Dean holds her, he decides that this – this right here – is enough. He closes his eyes softly, thinking about a world where he could be normal with her, when a soft, sleepy whisper breaks his daydream. "I'd rather be here with you than safe with anyone else."


End file.
